RUNES    OF    WOMAN 


Vamor  che  muove  il  sole  e  Faltre  stelk. 

DANTE. 


RUNES     OF     WOMAN 
FIONA     MACLEOD 


PORTLAND     MAINE 

THOMAS     BIRD     MOSHER 

MDCCCCXV 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  RNIA 

SANTA  BAH!}  Ait  A 


CONTENTS 

PREFACE  ...... 

PRELUDE  „ 

RUNES    OF    WOMAN  : 
I       THE    PRAYER    OF    WOMEN 
II       THE    RUNE    OF    THE    SORROW    OF    WOMEN 

III  THE    RUNE    OF    THE    PASSION    OF    WOMAN 

IV  THE    SHEPHERD  .... 


IX 

xiii 

3 
1 1 

21 

33 


THE    RUNE    OF    AGE 


41 


PREFACE 


^fPON  the  heart  of  woman  a  poet  found  some 
cryptic  characters  etched  there  by  her  tears.  Past 
all  loving  she  loved  the  man.  Past  all  under- 
standing the  poet  understood  the  woman.  In 
shadowy  silences  he  heard  the  prayer  that  rose  from  all  the 
sorrow  and  the  passion  oj  her  living:  she  told  him  of  the 
hopes  that  break  and  dream  again  :  of  that  tempestuous  sea 
within  her  that  lets  the  present  drown  and  drives  the  future 
on :  and  dim  upon  the  crags  of  time  he  saw  the  dread 
of  women  move  with  unrelenting  steps.  Past  all  loving  the 
woman  loved  the  man.  Past  all  understanding  the  poet 
understood  the  woman.  Then  she  drew  away  the  veil  in 
which  her  heart  was  shrouded  and  by  the  revealing  power 
of  that  love  and  of  that  understanding  he  translated  those 
characters  into  these  Runes. 

Is  it  for  contact  only  that  women  relinquish  all  and '"  go 
forth  discrowned  at  last  "  to  moan  for  the  dream  that  dies  at 
dawning  and  for  the  change  that  makes  no  difference  ?  Until 
she  shall  identify  her  own  soul  as  the  True  Shepherd  of  her 
life  and  shall  know  that  the  flickering  flame  of  passion  she 
has  so  long  accepted  as  the  guide  to  joy  is  but  an  exhalation 
of  her  07tm  radiant  being,  until  then  shall  this  self-defeating 
experience  with  poignant  persistence  return. 

ANNE    MONTGOMERIE 


PRELUDE 


£«-~i  f-^Q  HE  heart  of  woman  lies  under  the  mantle  of 
silence. 
The  mantle  flutters  and  falls  in  the  air  of  youth, 
The  heart  murmurs  a  song  oj  longing  and  dim 
desire,  beating  the  rhythm  of  a  happy  dream. 
Under  the  shadow  of  mystery  the  heart  oj  woman  smiles. 

II 

The  heart  of  woman  blooms  under  the  flame  of  passion. 
The  flooding  music  of  that  golden  flame  sin  '/•->  that 

were  mute  be 
The  sweet  body  gloics  with  the  radiance  of  dazzling   or. 
'The  eyes  like  double  stars  shine  through  the  mist  of  wonder. 
Under  the  flame  of  passion  the  heart  of  w^man  fades. 

Ill 

The  soul  of  woman  wakes  under  the  anguish  of  sorrow. 

And  though  the  dream  is  not  fulfilled  and  though  the  enchant- 
ment fails, 

And  passion  dies  the  body's  castaway, 

(.  nder  heartbreak  and  anguish  the  soul  of  woman  wakes, 

And  Lore,  the  only  immortal  rises,  till  its  rapturous  vision 
becomes  the  breath  of  every  day. 

ANNE    MONTGOMERIE 


RUNES    OF    WOMAN 


The  great  winding  sheets  that  bury  all  things 
in  oblivion,  are  two :  Love,  that  makes  oblivious  of 
Life;  and  Death,  that  obliterates  I. ore. 

Was  it  because  J  desired  thee  darkly,  that  thou 
could* st  not  kno7t>  the  white  spell  ?  Or  was  it  thai 
the  white  spell  could  not  reach  thy  darkness  ?  One 
god  debateth  this :  and  another  god  answereth  this : 
but  one  god  knoweth  it.      With  him  be  the  issue. 

AN    LEA1UIAR    BAN. 

{The  Book  of  White  Mag: 

My  wisdom  became  pregnant  on  lonely  moun- 
tains ;  upon  rugged  stones  she  bore  h.  r  young. 

Arow  she  runneth  strangely  through  the  hard 
desert  and  seeketh,  and  ever  seeketh  for  soft  grass, 
mine  own  old  wisdom. 

NIETZSCHE. 


THE    PRAYER    O  F    W  OMEN 


THE    PRAYER    OF    WOMEN 


SPIRIT  that  broods  upon  the  hills 
And  moves  upon  the  face  of  the  deep, 
And  is  heard  in  the  wind, 
Save  us  from  the  desire  of  men's  eyes, 

And  the  cruel  lust  of  them. 

Save  us  from  the  springing  of  the  cruel  seed 

In  that  narrow  house  which  is  as  the  grave 

For  darkness  and  loneliness  .  .  . 

That  women  carry  with  them  with  shame,  and  weariness, 
and  long  pain, 

Only  for  the  laughter  of  man's  heart, 

And  for  the  joy  that  triumphs  therein, 

And  the  sport  that  is  in  his  heart, 

Wherewith  he  mocketh  us, 

Wherewith  he  playeth  with  us, 

Wherewith  he  trampleth  upon  us  .  .  . 

Us,  who  conceive  and  bear  him ; 

Us,  who  bring  him  forth; 


THE   PRAYER    OF   WOMEN 

Who  feed  him  in  the  womb,  and  at  the  breast,  and  at  the 

knee  : 
Whom  he  calleth  mother  and  wife, 
And    mother   again   of    his   children   and    his   children's 

children. 
Ah,  hour  of  the  hours, 

When  he  looks  at  our  hair  and  sees  it  is  grey  ; 
And  at  our  eyes  and  sees  they  are  dim  ; 
And  at  our  lips  straightened  out  with  long  pain  ; 
And  at  our  breasts,  fallen  and  seared  as  a  barren  hill ; 
And  at  our  hands,  worn  with  toil  ! 
Ah,  hour  of  the  hours, 

When,  seeing,  he  seeth  all  the  bitter  ruin  and  wreck  of  us  — 
All  save  the  violated  womb  that  curses  him  — 
All  save  the  heart  that  forbeareth  ...  for  pity  — 
All  save  the  living  brain  that  condemneth  him  — 
All  save  the  spirit  that  shall  not  mate  with  him  — 
All  save  the  soul  he  shall  never  see 
Till  he  be  one  with  it,  and  equal; 
He  who  hath  the  bridle,  but  guideth  not ; 
He  who  hath  the  whip,  yet  is  driven; 
He  who  as  a  shepherd  calleth  upon  us, 
But  is  himself  a  lost  sheep,  crying  among  the  hills ! 


THE    PRAYER    OF    WOMEN 

O  Spirit,  and  the  Nine  Angels  who  watch  us, 

And  Thou,  white  Christ,  and  Mary  Mother  of  Sorrow, 

Heal  us  of  the  wrong  of  man : 

We  whose  breasts  are  weary  with  milk, 

Cry,  cry  to  Thee,  O  Compassionate  ! 


T  H  E  R  U  N  E  O  F  THE  SORROW  o  I-   W  OMEN 


This  is  the  rune  of  the  women  who  bear  in  sorrow: 
Who,  having  anguish  of  body,  die  in  the  pangs  of  bearing, 
Who,  with  the  ebb  at  the  heart,  pass  ere  the  wane  of  thr 
babe-month. 


THE  RUNE  OF  THE  SORROW  OF  WOMEN 


THE    RUNE 

WE  are  tired,  we  are  tired,  all  we  who  are 

women : 
Heavy  the  breasts  with  milk  that  never  shall 
nourish: 

Heavy  the  womb  that  never  again  shall  be  weighty. 
For  we  have  the  burthen  upon  us,  we  have  the  burthen, 
The  long  slow  pain,  and  the  sorrow  of  going,  and   the 

parting. 
O  little  hands,  O  little  lips,  farewell  and  farewell. 
Bitter  the  sorrow  of  bearing  only  to  end  with  the  parting. 

THE    DREAM 

Far  away  in  the  east  of  the  world  a  Woman  had  sorrow. 
Heavy  she  was  with  child,  and  the  pains  were  upon  her. 
Then  God  looked  forth  out  of  heaven,  and  He  spake  in 
His  pity  : 

*3 


THE  RUNE  OF  THE  SORROW  OF  WOMEN 

"  O  Mary,  thou  bearest  the  Prince  of  Peace,  and  thy  seed 

shall  be  blesseU" 
But   Mary  the   Mother  sighed,  and  God  the  All-Seeing 

wondered, 
For  this  is  the  rune  He  heard  in  the  heart  of  Mary  the 

Virgin:  — 
"  Man  blindfold  soweth  the  seed,  and  blindly  he  reapeth : 
And  lo  the  word  of  the  Lord  is  a  blessing  upon  the  sower. 
O  what  of  the  blessing  upon  the  field  that  is  sown, 
What  of  the  sown,  not  the  sower,  what  of  the  mother,  the 

bearer? 
Sure  it  is  this  that  I  see  :  that  everywhere  over  the  world 
The  man  has  the  pain  and  the  sorrow,  the  weary  womb 

and  the  travail ! 
Everywhere   patient  he  is,   restraining  the  tears  of   his 

patience, 
Slow  in  upbraiding,  swift  in  passion  unselfish, 
Bearing  his  pain  in  silence,  in  silence  the  shame  and  the 

anguish : 
Slow,  slow  he  is  to  put  the  blame  on  the  love  of  the  woman  : 
Slow  to  say  that  she  led  him  astray,  swift  ever  to  love  and 

excuse  her ! 
O  't  is  a  good  thing,  and  glad  I  am  at  the  seeing, 


THE  RUNE  OF  THE  SORROW  OF   WOMEN 

That  man  who  has  all  the  pain  and  the  patient  sorrow  and 

waiting 
Keepeth  his  heart  ever  young  and  never  upbraideth  the 

woman 
For  that  she  laughs  in  the  sun  and  takeththe  joy  of  her  living 
And  holdeth  him  to  her  breast,  and  knoweth  pleasure, 
And  plighteth  troth  akin  to  the  starry  immortals, 
And  soon  forgetteth,  and  lusteth  after  another, 
And  plighteth  again,  and  again,  and  yet  again  and  again, 
And  asketh  one  thing  only  of  man  who  is  patient  and 

loving,  — 
This  :  that  he  swerve  not  ever,  that  faithful  he  be  and  loyal, 
And  know  that  the  sorrow  of  sorrows  is  only  a  law  of  his 

being, 
And  all  is  well  with  woman,  and  the  world  of  woman,  and 

God. 
O  'tis  a  good  thing,  and  glad  I  am  at  the  seeing! 
And  this  is  the  rune  of  man  the  bearer  of  pain  and  sorrow, 
The  father  who  giveth  the  babe  his  youth,  his  joy  and  the 

life  of  his  living  1  "  — 

(And  high  in  His  Heaven  God  the  All-Seeing  troubled.) 


i7 


THE  RUNE  OF  THE  SORROW  OF  WOMEN 

THE    RUNE 

O  we  are  weary,  how  weary,  all  we  of  the  burthen  : 
Heavy  the  breasts  with  milk  that  never  shall  nourish  : 
Heavy  the  womb  that  never  again  shall  be  fruitful : 
Heavy  the  hearts  that  never  again  shall  be  weighty. 
For  we  have  the  burthen  upon  us,  we  have  the  burthen, 
The  long  slow  pain,  and  the  sorrow  of   going,  and  the 

parting. 
O  little  hands,  O  little  lips,  farewell  and  farewell: 
Bitter  the  sorrow  of  bearing  only  to  end  with  the  parting, 
Bitter  the  sorrow  of  bearing  only  to  end  with  the  parting. 


i9 


THE    RUNE   OF   THE   PASSION    OF 
WOMAN 


THE   RUNE   OF   THE   PASSION    OF 
WOMAN 


WE  who  love  are  those  who  suffer, 
We  who  surfer   most   are   those  who 
most  do  love. 
O  the  heartbreak  come  of  longing  love, 
O  the  heartbreak  come  of  love  deferred, 
O  the  heartbreak  come  of  love  grown  listless. 
Far  upon  the  lonely  hills  I  have  heard  the  crying, 
The  lamentable  crying  of  the  ewes, 
And  dreamed  I  heard  the  sorrow  of  poor  mothers 
Made  lambless  too  and  weary  with  that  sorrow  : 
And  far  upon  the  waves  I  have  heard  the  crying, 
The  lamentable  crying  of  the  seamews, 
And  dreamed  I  heard  the  wailing  of  the  women 
Whose  hearts  are  flamed  with  love  above  the  gravestone, 
Whose  hearts  beat  fast  but  hear  no  fellow-beating. 
Bitter,  alas,  the  sorrow  of  lonely  women, 
When  no  man  by  the  ingle  sits,  and  in  the  cradle 

23 


THE  RUNE  OF  THE  PASSION  OF  WOMAN 

No  little  flower-like  faces  flush  with  slumber : 

Bitter  the  loss  of  these,  the  lonely  silence, 

The  void  bed,  the  hearthside  void, 

The  void  heart,  and  only  the  grave  not  void : 

But  bitterer,  oh  more  bitter  still,  the  longing 

Of  women  who  have  known  no  love  at  all,  who  never, 

Never,  never,  have  grown  hot  and  cold  with  rapture 

'Neath  the  lips  or  'neath  the  clasp  of  longing, 

Who  have  never  opened  eyes  of  heaven  to  man's  devotion, 

Who  have  never  heard  a  husband  whisper  "  wife," 

Who  have  lost  their  youth,  their  dreams,  their  fairness, 

In  a  vain  upgrowing  to  a  light  that  comes  not. 

Bitter  these  :  but  bitterer  than  either, 

O  most  bitter  for  the  heart  of  woman 

To  have  loved  and  been  beloved  with  passion, 

To  have  known  the  height  and  depth,  the  vision 

Of  triple-flaming  love  —  and  in  the  heart-self 

Sung  a  song  of  deathless  love,  immortal, 

Sunrise-haired,  and  starry-eyed,  and  wondrous  : 

To  have  felt  the  brain  sustain  the  mighty 

Weight  and  reach  of  thought  unspanned  and  spanless, 

To  have  felt  the  soul  grow  large  and  noble, 

25 


THE  RUNE  OF  THE  PASSION  OF  WOMAN 

To  have  felt  the  spirit  dauntless,  eager,  swift  in  hope  and 

daring, 
To  have  felt  the  body  grow  in  fairness, 
All  the  glory  and  the  beauty  of  the  body 
Thrill  with  joy  of  living,  feel  the  bosom 
Rise  and  fall  with  sudden  tides  of  passion, 
Feel  the  lift  of  soul  to  soul,  and  know  the  rapture 
Of  the  rising  triumph  of  the  ultimate  dream 
Beyond  the  pale  place  of  defeated  dreams  : 
To  know  all  this,  to  feel  all  this,  to  be  a  woman 
Crowned  with  the  double  crown  of  lily  and  rose 
And  have  the  morning  star  to  rule  the  golden  hours 
And  have  the  evening  star  thro'  hours  of  dream, 
To  live,  to  do,  to  act,  to  dream,  to  hope, 
To  be  a  perfect  woman  with  the  full 
Sweet,  wondrous,  and  consummate  joy 
Of  womanhood  fulfilled  to  all  desire  — 
And  then  ...  oh  then,  to  know  the  waning  of  the  vision, 
To  go  through  days  and  nights  of  starless  longing, 
Through  nights  and  days  of  gloom  and  bitter  sorrow: 
To  see  the  fairness  of  the  body  passing, 
To  see  the  beauty  wither,  the  sweet  colour 
Fade,  the  coming  of  the  wintry  lines 

27 


THE  RUNE  OF  THE  PASSION  OF  WOMAN 

Upon  pale  faces  chilled  with  idle  loving, 

The  slow  subsidence  of  the  tides  of  living. 

To  feel  all  this,  and  know  the  desolate  sorrow 

Of  the  pale  place  of  all  defeated  dreams, 

And  to  cry  out  with  aching  lips,  and  vainly ; 

And  to  cry  out  with  aching  heart,  and  vainly ; 

And  to  cry  out  with  aching  brain,  and  vainly ; 

And  to  cry  out  with  aching  soul,  and  vainly ; 

To  cry,  cry,  cry  with  passionate  heartbreak,  sobbing, 

To  the  dim  wondrous  shape  of  Love  Retreating  — 

To  grope  blindly  for  the  warm  hand,  for  the  swift  touch, 

To  seek  blindly  for  the  starry  lamps  of  passion, 

To  crave  blindly  for  the  dear  words  of  longing ! 

To  go  forth  cold,  and  drear,  and  lonely,  O  so  lonely, 

With  the  heart-cry  even  as  the  crying 

The  lamentable  crying  on  the  hills 

When  lambless  ewes  go  desolately  astray  — 

Yea,  to  go  forth  discrowned  at  last,  who  have  worn 

The  flower-sweet  lovely  crown  of  rapturous  love  : 

To  know  the  eyes  have  lost  their  starry  wonder, 

To  know  the  hair  no  more  a  fragrant  dusk 

Wherein  to  whisper  secrets  of  deep  longing ; 

To  know  the  breasts  shall  henceforth  be  no  haven 

29 


THE  RUNE  OF  THE  PASSION  OF   WOMAN 

For  the  dear  weary  head  that  loved  to  lie  there  — 

To  go,  to  know,  and  yet  to  live  and  suffer, 

To  be  as  use  and  wont  demand,  to  fly  no  signal 

That  the  soul  founders  in  a  sea  of  sorrow, 

But  to  be  "true,"  "a  woman,"  "patient,"  "tender," 

"  Divinely  acquiescent,"  all-forbearing, 

To  laugh,  and  smile,  to  comfort,  to  sustain, 

To  do  all  this  —  oh  this  is  bitterest, 

O  this  the  heaviest  cross,  O  this  the  tree 

Whereon  the  woman  hath  her  crucifixion. 

But  O  ye  women,  what  avail  ?     Behold, 

Men  worship  at  the  tree,  whereon  is  writ 

The  legend  of  the  broken  hearts  of  women. 

And  this  is  the  end  :  for  young  and  old  the  end  : 

For  fair  and  sweet,  for  those  not  sweet  nor  fair, 

For  loved,  unloved,  and  those  who  once  were  loved, 

For  all  the  women  of  all  this  weary  world 

Of  joy  too  brief  and  sorrow  far  too  long, 

This  is  the  end :  the  cross,  the  bitter  tree, 

And  worship  of  the  phantom  raised  on  high 

Out  of  your  love,  your  passion,  your  despair, 

Hopes  unfulfilled,  and  unavailing  tears. 


31 


THE    SHEPHERD 


THE    SHEPHERD 
Verily,  those  herdsmen  also  were  of  the  sheep  ! 

NIETZSCHE 


"Y7  E  loved  me,  as  he  said,  in  every  part, 

And  yet  I  could  not,  would  not,  give  him  all 
Why  should  a  woman  forfeit  her  whole  heart 
At  bidding  of  a  single  shepherd's  call  ? 
One  vast  the  deep,  and  yet  each  wave  is  free 
To  answer  to  the  moonshine's  drowsy  smile 
Or  leap  to  meet  the  storm-wind's  rapturous  glee : 
This  heart  of  mine  a  wave  is  oftenwhile. 
Depth  below  depth,  strange  currents  cross,  re-cross, 
The  anguished  eddies  darkly  ebb  and  flow, 
But  on  the  placid  surface  seldom  toss 
The  reckless  flotsam  of  what  seethes  below  : 
O  placid  calms  and  maelstrom  heart  of  me, 
Shall  it  be  thus  till  there  be  no  more  sea  ? 


35 


THE    SHEPHERD 
II 

"  I  am  thy  shepherd,  love,  that  on  this  hill 
Of  life  shall  tend  and  guard  thee  evermore." 
These  were  thy  words  that  far-off  day  and  still 
Lives  on  thine  echoing  lips  this  bond  of  yore. 
Yet  who  wert  thou,  O  soul  as  I  am,  thus 
To  take  so  blithely  gage  of  shepherding  ? 
Were  we  not  both  astray  where  perilous 
Steps  might  each  into  the  abysmal  darkness  fling  ? 
Lo,  my  tired  soul  even  as  a  storm-stayed  ewe 
Across  the  heights  unto  my  shepherd  cried  : 
But  to  the  sheltered  vale  at  last  I  drew 
And  laid  me  weary  by  thy  sleeping  side. 
Thou  didst  not  hear  The  Shepherd  calling  us, 
Nor  far  the  night-wind,  vibrant,  ominous. 


37 


THE    SHEPHERD 
III 

O  shepherd  of  mine,  lord  of  my  little  life, 

Guard  me  from  knowledge  even  of  the  stress: 

And  if  I  stray,  take  heed  thou  of  thy  wife, 

Errant  from  mere  womanhood's  wantonness. 

Even  as  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  lo  in  thy  hand, 

The  hollow  of  thy  hand,  my  soul  support : 

Guide  this  poor  derelict  back  unto  the  land 

And  lead  me,  pilot,  to  thy  sheltering  port ! 

No  —  no  —  keep  back  —  away  —  not  now  thy  kiss  : 

O  shepherd,  pilot,  wake !  awake!  awake! 

The  deep  must  whelm  us  both!     Hark,  the  waves  hiss, 

And  as  a  shaken  leaf  the  land  doth  shake  ! 

Awake,  O  shepherding  soul,  and  take  command !  — 

—  Nay,  vain  vain  words  :  how  shall  he  understand? 


39 


THE   RUNE   OF    AGE 


THE   RUNE   OF   AGE 


THOU  that  on  the  hills  and  wastes  of  Night 
art  Shepherd, 

Whose  folds   are   flameless   moons  and   icy 
planets, 

Whose  darkling  way  is  gloomed  with  ancient  sorrows  : 
Whose  breath  lies  white  as  snow  upon  the  olden, 
Whose  sigh  it  is  that  furrows  breasts  grown  milkless, 
Whose  weariness  is  in  the  loins  of  man 
And  is  the  barren  stillness  of  the  woman  : 
O  thou  whom  all  would  flee,  and  all  must  meet, 
Thou  that  the  Shadow  art  of  Youth  Eternal, 
The  gloom  that  is  the  hush'd  air  of  the  Grave, 
The  sigh  that  is  between  last  parted  love, 
The  light  for  aye  withdrawing  from  weary  eyes, 
The  tide  from  stricken  hearts  forever  ebbing  1 

O  thou  the  Elder  Brother  whom  none  loveth, 
Whom  all  men  hail  with  reverence  or  mocking, 

43 


THE    RUNE   OF    AGE 

Who  broodest  on  the  brows  of  frozen  summits 

Yet  dreamest  in  the  eyes  of  babes  and  children : 

Thou,  Shadow  of  the  Heart,  the  Mind,  the  Life, 

Who  art  that  dusk  What-is  that  is  already  Has-Been, 

To  thee  this  rune  of  the  fathers  to  the  sons 

And  of  the  sons  to  the  sons,  and  mothers  to  new  mothers  — 

To  thee  who  art  Aois, 

To  thee  who  art  Age  ! 

Breathe  thy  frosty  breath  upon  my  hair,  for  I  am  weary  ! 

Lay  thy  frozen  hand  upon  my  bones  that  they  support  not, 

Put  thy  chill  upon  the  blood  that  it  sustain  not; 

Place  the  crown  of  thy  fulfilling  on  my  forehead; 

Throw  the  silence  of  thy  spirit  on  my  spirit; 

Lay  the  balm  and  benediction  of  thy  mercy 

( )n  the  brain-throb  and  the  heart-pulse  and  the  life-spring  — 

For  thy  child  that  bows  his  head  is  weary, 

For  thy  child  that  bows  his  head  is  weary. 

I  the  shadow  am  that  seeks  the  Darkness. 

Age,  that  hath  the  face  of  Night  unstarr'd  and  moonless, 

Age,  that  doth  extinguish  star  and  planet, 

Moon  and  sun  and  all  the  fiery  worlds, 

Give  me  now  thy  darkness  and  thy  silence  ! 


FOUR  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY  COPIES  OF 
THIS  BOOK  HAVE  BEEN  PRINTED  ON 
VAN  GELDER  HAND-MADE  PAPER  AND 
THE  TYPE  DISTRIBUTED  IN  THE  MONTH 
OF    OCTOBER    MDCCCCXV 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


A  A  001  423  990 


